


a flicker of wild eyes

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: there's a heartbeat under my skin [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Yes it Is, is this an excuse to explore a little detail of their relationship?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: Veronica has developed a collection of Betty’s looks. Sure it’s somewhat greedy.





	a flicker of wild eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have a longer piece in the works, but this happened between reviewing my thesis and working around a plot hole for the longer piece. I'll be real it's not been edited at all so apologies for any glaring mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> Title's from Miracle of Sound's song "Lady of Worlds"

 

There are many things Veronica could’ve picked to fixate on staring at the image, projected on the bedroom wall and dimmed due to the surrounding darkness – both for her convenience. Bianca’s nice like that, and does it with barely a peep. Veronica couldn’t possibly tell you who she learned it from. (Only that she’s grown certain it wasn’t from her father.)

Thought for another sleepless night.

Tonight her thoughts are all swimming to take in everything she can of the image before her, a rarity she’s led to believe. Well, she supposes assassins can’t operate properly if there are images of them floating about after every job. Especially a job involving what’s clearly a black wig and puzzling fashion choices. And that’s with Veronica being nice and ignoring the gun held close to her purse.

_The purse is cute, tho, I’ll give her that._

Cute and completely mismatched with her black skirt and shirt dancing with enough colours to make a rainbow jealous, and your head spin from a migraine. (Or that could be the sleep deprivation. It has been four nights. Meh, she’s had worse studying Pre-Torkostian Law.) She shudders when her eyes slip down to the shirt. Full body shudder that has her hand digging into the sheets and her tongue clicking against her teeth.

In the span of two calming breaths her eyes have wandered back to the woman’s face. And they wander still, upward and onward to her eyes – are they blue or green? Veronica can’t tell from the quality. A part of her’s still irked they couldn’t get a better quality image, but well.

_“Better not glare at a gift cat less it decides to cut you on the way out, mija.”_

So no, she won’t glare at it, or whine about it. She’ll just stare at the woman in black and rainbow and with a gun. Stare at one enigmatic Elizabeth Cooper, who’s glaring right back up into the camera – glaring like she’s fully aware it’s there and she just _doesn’t give two shits_. But there’s the catch –

“You do care, don’t you?”  Veronica whispers, tilting her head. A too long bang slips from her bun.

Why else would the woman work so hard not to show anything in that glare? And damn isn’t she good at it. Eyes intense, boring into the camera and going further, staring down anyone who dares find this image. (Maybe that’s why it’s like finding a pot of jade beneath a waterfall?)

But that’s the thing, they’re intense and clear, sharp, unbothered by the mass swaying around her, untouched by the alcohol no doubt pouring through the club. Veronica can’t even tell whether the woman’s going to complete a job or she’s done with it, she just –

She can just sit there in the dark and stare right back at those blue-green eyes, and think, _yes, definitely. 100% the woman for the job._

(If y’know, she doesn’t outright blow it off.)

\-----

And, no it doesn’t follow her in the odd hours of sleep she scrunches up together.

No, it doesn’t flash in the off moment where her concentration’s slipping between the now and limbo.

She definitely doesn’t think back on that dimmed image and that black wig and those sharp eyes when Elizabeth – when _Betty_ ’s sitting across from her, basked in red neon of the restaurant and remains of circles around her eyes. Veronica doesn’t stare at her in search of that same sharpness behind the traces of fatigue. She doesn’t breathe easier knowing that it’s there.

(Who in their right mind would breathe _easier_ sitting across from a known professional killer who, despite going on a nine-hour flight and humouring Veronica at 3 in the morning, is _poignantly sharp_ and fully capable of _killing you?_ )

No, of course not. That would mean she’s invested. It wouldn’t do for Veronica to get invested before the woman even accepted her offer. Not that she’ll get invested either way. Not that she’s making a resolution right then and there, spooning the bowl for every last scrap of pudding, to find out what’s behind that sharp stare.

Absolutely not.

She’s just looking to create a spy network and hire a notoriously elusive killer for a bodyguard.

\------

Here’s what she’s learned of Betty:

She doesn’t like to share much.

Which is understandable given her profession and given Veronica’s business plan, but – well, it still tickles at Veronica’s nerves. And not one of those cute little tickles. Oh no, this one’s an incessant little thing that refuses to stay in one place and brings out an urge to run her hands through her hair.

Okay, so maybe it’s an itch.

Whatever.  Not the point.

But it could be because Betty keeps looking at her, silently yet still poignantly loud with her a shiver climbs Veronica’s neck and makes her fingers falter, like how all those people in the courtroom used to give her all of their attention. And she remembers soaking in it, back straight and voice clear and words picked so carefully to poke and steal more of it. And she feels something similar swell whenever she meets Betty’s eyes – and the woman continues to stare sharp and calculating and –

And like she’s supposed to – _she’s your bodyguard, you’re reading too much into it._

The point she’s getting around to:

For all of Betty’s secrecy, for all of her cool professionalism and vague non-answers, her eyes are a tell. With each look they are, with each look that lasts longer than what she thinks they should, Betty’s eyes change, subtly.

Little things like the shine in the morning light, or how they hold more and more attitude than the raised brow or quirked lip. How gradually they slow in their dance over Veronica’s face, unhurried, maybe even languid if Veronica’s brave enough to voice it.

How more and more the shiver travels down her neck instead of up.

(But that has nothing to do with Betty’s looks. _Clearly_.)

\------

She’s tired. Like, she can’t even make up a half-assed excuse to hide the fact behind – _that’s_ how tired Veronica is. Hells if Cheryl’s around, she might give her that little black bag she’s been passive-aggressively nagging her about. And hunt her down the next day because that bag is one of a kind _and don’t you dare throw it in the river, Cheryl, I swear to –_

Wait that’s not where this is going.

“Shit,” Veronica mumbles, blinking blearily from the sofa. Her fingers clink against her glasses instead of her nose and she huffs, feeling the discomfort behind her ears. She very near tears them off, one move away from simply dropping them on the floor when a hand catches her wrist and skilfully slips them out of her grasp.

Veronica tilts her head, blinking until Betty’s face clears enough for Veronica to see her eyes and the disapproving frown. And Veronica must be one walking the fine line between dreams and reality because, truly, Betty isn’t even hiding the concern from spilling through her eyes.

Veronica remembers the shades of it. Remembers picking them in between frustration and commends and far away looks; picking them like she’s wont to pick vibrant blossoms from her garden and arrange them in a vase and hide it away. Remembers feeling a dash of warmth crawl up her neck every time she finds them, remembers using all of her will not to react on it, not to quirk her brow, not to give her a knowing smile and definitely not to point it out because, rude.

But it’s however early in the morning and she fell asleep on her office sofa with her glasses _again_ and well she’s already knee deep in dreamland so what does it matter if she smiles up at Betty like a fool (a Lodge is no fool;) what does it matter if she lets her eyes soak in Betty’s concern, free and rich and adorable in a way.

If Betty knows what she’s doing, she doesn’t bring it up.

But the way she says “Go back to sleep.” The way her voice softens and lingers, the way she doesn’t shake Veronica’s weak grip on her wrist as she stands, the way her eyes shine in the dark –

It follows her into her dreams, enveloping her like a blanket.

\-----

She knows she fucked up even before Betty storms off.

Her eyes flicker through so many emotions – frustration, wonder, _want_ , confusion – but it’s the hurt that sticks with her; that sobers her up quicker than cold water on an icy winter night. The hurt, flashing bright and deep and raw before Betty can rein it in, reign herself in and stop them.

She knows she fucked up when the hurt goes through her once, twice, _thrice_. Then it sticks in the pit of her stomach, acidic and biting at everything around her until she feels ready puke and dig her fingers in to make it stop.

And it’s the eyes that stay with her on the ride to her place. Dangles in front of her as she walks from her lift to her door like a rude reminder. Crushes her chest until she’s crumbling on the kitchen table in front of her _mami_ and mumbling “I fucked up. So bad.”

The eyes and the hurt and how they shined beneath the neon lights before going cold.

\------

Veronica’s seen Betty concerned, worried even, blatantly so. And the memory’s often followed by the smell of fresh rain on a chilled morning, hands pressing awkwardly – _hesitantly_ – into her back and words pressed into her hair, chosen carefully yet given freely.

One could say it’s become a reprieve for her on her bad nights. Sweeter than alcohol and growing alarmingly effective. (And it’s selfish. She doesn’t care honestly.)

The hands cupping her cheeks, fingers twitching more than they should, than Betty usually allows herself; the eyes staring back at her, imploring, urging, _begging_ –

They’re afraid. So much Veronica feels it against her skin, feels it down to the fingers latched onto the gun. Feels it crawl beneath her skin as she lowers the gun and Betty swipes it away, eyes on Veronica – never leaving Veronica.

But Veronica can’t bring herself to keep it.

She doesn’t want to see that look ever again. The reactions so visceral, stealing the breath from her lungs and numbing her fingers and – and she’s shaking and she might be hyperventilating or y’know having a panic attack or or or

She feels arms wrap around her, hands firm and sure against her back and words whispered into her ear, confident, comforting.  

\------

Veronica has developed a collection of Betty’s looks. Mostly happy ones. Sure it’s somewhat greedy and yes, she does find herself going back to that collection when she’s _this_ close to throttling something since she can’t throttle her clients. _It’s bad for business yada yada._

The way Betty’s eyes dance around the chess board eagerly right before she makes her move, and the way she scrunches her brows and squints once Bianca counters her move with an unexpected one.

The way she blinks quickly, savouring the first sip of her tea in the morning – Veronica still thinks she puts too much honey in that, but she’s given up saying anything. Little comforts, yeah?

The exasperated eye-roll she makes whenever Veronica finds a way to insert yet another meme into the conversation – shamelessly might she add, but one mustn’t let an opportunity go to waste.

The warm look Veronica catches when Betty thinks she’s not looking – or maybe she pretends to be ignorant, leaves her stare to linger purposefully. Like a reminder.

The happy, drowsy squint she shoots Veronica in the morning, when Veronica has the gall to leave bed and start her morning when they could spend 15 more minutes cuddling. (There’s a special place for the pleased little hum Betty lets out when Veronica slides back beneath the covers.)


End file.
